Most Unwanted
by Antilochus
Summary: The year is 1194 - Richard Plantagenet has returned to England to reclaim his kingdom, reward the faithful, and punish the traitors. This looks at how things could have been if one moment in the second to last episode of season 2 changed. Beta by Bookishy
1. Chapter 1

**March, 1194**

The massive doors of the great hall screeched open, startling Marian awake. Over the past few nights sleep had failed to find her and now the exhaustion was settling in.

A man crossed to where she was sitting and touched her shoulder to make sure she wasn't falling asleep again. Her eyes fluttered open, and she perceived a soldier in cloud-white robes with a blood red cross across his chest, silhouetted by the light flowing in from the doorway.

"I suppose this means I didn't receive a pardon?" she asked of the figure who, much to her surprise, laughed. "Oh, that's not funny, Much, you know that."

"If anyone has to worry, my lady Marian, it is not you."

She sat back on the bench and rested her head against the stones, gaping at the ceiling as she willed herself not to dream of sleep. Much took a seat by her side and scooted in so that she could use his bony shoulder as a pillow.

"Can't you tell me what's going on?" she yawned and patted at her lap to feel for the rolled skins she had brought with her. She pulled out one in particular, knowing it by how her fingers bumped over the many wrinkles in the old vellum. With her head on Much's shoulder, she opened the scroll to look at it, ghosting her index finger along the black and gold lines of ink that framed names and drew boxes or ovals together.

"It's almost over," Much said, "Only a few more testimonies to go, and then you can meet with Robin."

Her finger came to rest at the negative space beneath an oval and a box linked near the bottom of the scroll; she scratched at the empty spot with her nail. Much peered over at the scroll and scrounged his face; he had never learned to read.

"Have you told Robin yet?" Much asked and she shook her head. "He'll have to find out sometime; I'm not going to tell him."

Marian pressed her face into Much's arm and sighed. Everything always came back to Robin.

* * *

**October 14, 1193**

Guy's cryptic goodbye earlier that morning had set Marian's mind spinning. He was up to something, she was sure, and his admonition to her that "things would be better" smelled like trouble. When Allan gave her no help, she rode to Robin's camp to see what he had to say, but the deserted camp sent her into a panic. It had become clear to her what was happening: the king was finally returning to England, and the sheriff and Gisborne were going to kill him when he landed. She returned to Allan once more, begging for scraps of information.

Allan called her crazy.

Allan was against her.

Her fiancé was missing and the sheriff was planning something. She had to act now. Her skin prickled with the heat of blood rush as she knocked Allan out and unbuckled his sword belt. She could barely feel her feet beneath her as she made her way towards the sheriff's map room, as though she were going to meet Robin at the end of the hallway, instead of going to kill Vasey. Only one thing snagged her plans, and that was the black figure of Sir Guy of Gisborne.

Upon seeing Gisborne she instinctively made to hide the sword, stepping toward the wall and pulling the weapon behind her dress. If she were lucky, she could keep his eyes up so that he wouldn't notice her deception. Allan was easy to take down in a fight, especially unawares; Gisborne would put up a more competent resistance. She cursed herself for not being more aware.

"Marian, have you seen Allan?" Gisborne asked.

"Allan?" She crossed her free hand over her face and tucked her hair behind her ear. "No. Why, should I have?"

"We're supposed to leave within the next few hours, and yet I can't find him anywhere."

"Have you checked the kitchen? I think he's seeing a girl who works there – maybe he wants to say goodbye." She smiled to punctuate the story.

"Maybe," Gisborne conceded, crossing his arms and sitting back on his heels like he wanted to make conversation. Marian, who could see the doorway into the sheriff's room just at the end of the hall, wanted to scream. "Marian, I had wanted to talk with you again before I left." He reached for the arm she was keeping close to the wall. Without thinking, she drew back.

She attempted to cover her misstep, but not before he noticed her withdrawal. Marian went rigid as Gisborne gripped her wrist. His eyes narrowed.

"Marian, what are you hiding?" Anger coiled beneath his otherwise tepid voice.

She rolled her wrist, attempting to break his hold, but his strength won out. He pushed his fingers in the spaces between her wrist-bones. Pain shot through her arm, making her drop the sword. The weapon knocked against the floor with a traitorous cacophony.

The next few moments whirred past as she attempted to push Gisborne down and run when he bent over to pick up the sword. He caught the movement and blocked her, slamming her into the wall with his shoulder. She gasped, losing a breath. Trying to use the wall as a propellant, she put her hand to his shoulder and her foot on his knee and tried to push, but he struck her leg down with a sharp elbow jab, then pried her fingers off his shoulder and pushed them backwards, making her scream. He covered her lips with his hand to silence her as she kicked at his shins in vain. With what next felt to her like an embarrassingly small effort, he twisted her around face first against the wall and pinned both of her arms behind her back. As he began to pat her down, she shuddered.

"Is that really necessary?" she asked.

"I don't know, is it?" He growled.

"This has all been a misunderstanding; you don't even know what I was doing."

"No!" he roared, "I don't! Marian, what were you thinking? Where's Allan?"

"He's safe. Guy, let me go. I can explain."

With his wrist across her shoulders, he pressed her deeper against the wall, like a rolling pin flattening bread dough. She gritted her teeth as cold gray stone scratched the hot skin of her cheek. "It's not what you think. I found his sword abandoned and I was carrying it for him."

"How thoughtful. I take it that this favor was so urgent that it required resisting me?"

"It's not like that."

"I thought I could trust you. I thought you had given your word."

"Guy, please—"

"No. Within hours after you give me your word that this Nightwatchman business is over, I find you sneaking around the castle and beating up my men."

She laughed. "How do you know I did anything to him?"

A moment of silence from Guy told her that she had just misspoken. "I hardly think he gave you that sword or that he abandoned it," Guy said, his gravel voice rubbing over her like sand. "Allan's reliable for a few things."

She heard him sigh, and then, to her eternal shock, felt his forehead pressing into the space between her shoulder blades. Once again, his impertinence gave her pause; the assumption that he could touch her at will was infuriating.

"Why do you do this to me, Marian?" he mumbled into her dress, as though she were at fault for not wanting to take his orders.

She hardened her voice, hoping to cut. "Do not play as though you are the only one betrayed. You lied to me. You're going to Portsmouth to kill the king."

Gisborne withdrew from her back, and his voice took on an equally sharp edge. "Who told you that?"

"A rumor. And you did not deny it."

"I am going to Portsmouth, yes, but if you think that I am going there to kill Richard then you are mistaken." He let one of his hands trail up her arm. Her heart beat furiously in her chest as she tried to gauge his mood, the strength of his lies, and her chances of escaping. His hand brushed the hair between her shoulder and her neck. She twitched involuntarily. "Someone has been feeding you lies, Marian."

"Then why are you going there at all?" she accused, attempting to keep her voice steady.

His hand cupped her bare shoulders, and he flipped her around to face him. Her shoulder blades bounced against stones. She considered her options for fighting her way out of this, and reasoned that they were less than promising; the wall closed off at least one direction for escape and his hands lingered at her throat. She was keenly aware that Gisborne, unlike her, was still armed.

"The king is not in Portsmouth; he's in the Holy Land. We are going to Portsmouth, Marian, on business at the request of Prince John. No further." He leaned his face down closer to hers and spoke in a hush. "You think too much for your own good."

Her fingers scratched at the stone for want of a weapon. "Then why are the mercenaries here? Why have you been putting together an army if not to kill the king?"

"Did you ever think that perhaps those mercenaries have gathered to assist us in a different task?"

"What sort of task?" she asked, genuinely confused.

"Surely you must be aware of the problems presented to us by a certain rogue element in Nottinghamshire," he answered with a voice as soft as the fur on a wolf cub's belly. "Right now one hundred paid men have gathered in Nettlestone; last I heard, they had that outlaw gang trapped in a barn. The sheriff and I expect to get word of Hood's death once we reach Portsmouth."

She could feel her blood turning to ice in her veins. "That can't be true," she scoffed, pretending to be amused, believing that he spoke true.

"Is there something else you wanted to tell me, Marian?" he murmured, and she wanted to kick him for his conceit.

"I have never wanted his death." She tried not to mewl. She was not a baby cat. She could not merely scratch his eyes out and get away with it.

He laughed and put his arm above her head. "Don't tell me you would have me save him."

Her silence must have been answer enough; sensing her reaction, he sucked in a sharp breath and clenched his jaw. The veins of his neck stood out in crisp relief. "Marian," he intoned without a trace of humor, "I can't recall you ever protesting before when I optioned to kill him. You once congratulated my victory when we both thought he was dead."

"Did I? It was so long ago, Guy," A spot on the opposite wall took on a very attractive quality around that moment. Marian gazed at it with a sudden and severe longing. "I thought he was already dead, then, and so there was no point in resisting execution. Anyway, my father had just died, and I was distracted."

Her feeble words faded away as he lifted her left hand and covered it with his right, caressing her bones with his fingertips.

"Answer my question," he commanded, his eyes falling short from meeting hers. "Tell me whether you are in league with my enemy."

"Guy, if you think for a even a second that the sheriff doesn't—"

"Marian, be quiet," he hissed, his eyes suddenly alert.

"No!" she cried, "Listen to me, this is—"

She was cut off mid-sentence as Gisborne covered her mouth with his. The shock immobilized her long enough for a patrol of guards to march past the two of them pressed together against the wall. She heard a chuckle and wanted to scream from embarrassment. As soon as the guards were comfortably out of earshot, she tore her face out from under Gisborne's and coughed for air.

"I will not be silenced that way," she spat in a hoarse whisper, unable to meet his eyes.

He rubbed his jaw, seemingly unmoved. "Would you have rather shouted your treason for the castle to hear?" When she said nothing, he continued, "You are going to your chamber where you will stay until I return to Nottingham; I will have servants bring you everything you need in the meantime."

She froze. "Guy, you can not just shut me up in my chamber like a child or a prisoner."

He looked her in the eye and growled, "You only had mobility at my pleasure," He seized her hands and held her still while picking up Allan's sword then proceeded to drag her down the hallway.

Terror touched her as she thought of the impending isolation. "Why," she petitioned, trotting to keep up with his long stride, "is Hood's death so important to you?"

"It is not only his death but your offense to it."

"I told you; I do not like bloodshed. And it would be unwise—he is popular. If you want a peasant rebellion on your hands . . . "

"The people of Nettlestone gave him up willingly."

"What? I cannot believe that."

"Well, perhaps belief is as difficult for you as honesty."

She glared at his back but he failed to notice.

Guy continued, "Is it so impossible that a village who never knew this man as anything other than an outlaw who sometimes brought them food—as a man who was once implicated in the murder of some of their children—would want to trade him for long-term relief from the legitimate sheriff?"

"You will have trouble in Locksley for it."

"I already have trouble in Locksley."

"It will plague you. Many of the people there knew him, loved him. They will consider his death martyrdom. What will they think when they hear that their current master, his position uncertain, killed their former, beloved master? No matter how deserving Hood is of punishment, or how scant the chance of him regaining his lands, it will hurt your position. You said once that they mock you. How will this turn out?"

"It is not my decision, it is the sheriff's," Guy replied, his back like a wall in front of her.

"So you go along with each of his commands like a simpleton?" she chided as they reached the narrow spiral staircase that led towards her room. He let go of her hand as they climbed so that neither would be encumbered on the slippery steps, but his pace did not slow. She thought briefly of running while his back was turned, but did not want to chance the fall, especially not in her dress. She cursed herself for having this cumbersome dress tailored – oh no, all the ladies in London have split skirts. A split skirt also provided more of a chance of tripping if she ran. Maybe she could escape through her window and get to Robin in time. Maybe she could also grow wings and learn to fly.

"It is neither base nor simple to practice obedience, Marian," Gisborne lectured from above. "I wish you would try it sometime."

She tried not to be too harsh when she scoffed. "Guy, please, I am begging you, what difference does that outlaw make to us? You do not need to let this happen,"

He recited a litany of offences as he ascended the stairs, his words wafting up the winding tower to the sky. "Robin Hood is a dangerous criminal who steals from my chest, who preys on travelers, who makes a mockery of the law, and who will stoop to using defenseless women as hostages."

She bit her lip at his last accusation, knowing that her life may rest on concealing how she had cooperated with Robin. "Hood may be deserving of some punishment, yes, but he has never taken a life. Surely execution is excessive."

"Marian, I don't know what he has done to deserve this kindness from you. That man dangled you from a tree and left you to die in smoke, and yet you ask me—no, you beg me—to forgive him. You are either a fool or a traitor."

"I do not want to betray you."

"Then you are too kind, Marian." Gisborne stopped at the top of the stairs before she reached the landing, forcing Marian to squeeze past him so that she could enter the hallway. To her dismay, they had arrived at her door sooner than she had anticipated.

"I am not consumed by revenge - that is all," she countered, assuming the tone of a haughty noblewoman. "Whether Robin Hood has done wrong in the past is irrelevant; he is a human being and has a right to live."

"Wouldn't you say that my guards also have that right, and that Robin has denied it to them? How many more of my soldiers must die in pursuit of that man?"

She didn't have an answer for that; she could not argue legitimately that Robin should run free. "Perhaps you can catch him another way? Stop him in a manner that does not require death?"

Gisborne fumbled with his keys, not looking at her. "Even if I forgave the multiple personal insults he has dealt me, he is a threat to order in Nottingham, and he must be eliminated. The sheriff has ordered him caught and killed, and as Master of Arms I am duty bound to see that order carried out."

"Hiring an army to handle a mere outlaw - that is a fine, wise, prudent option, and certainly not a waste of resources. Guy, doesn't it even touch you as a Christian?" she pleaded. "Have you no sense of mercy?"

"I show no mercy to those who show none."

She bit her tongue to keep from laughing aloud. "What do you even mean by that?"

"Marian, did you know that while he held me captive, he was going to torture me?"  
She rolled her eyes. "Do not make up stories. I know that he has slighted you, but you returned unscathed."

He cut her off. "Only because his little friends got there in time to intervene. You, Marian, were not there. You did not see me bound and gagged like an animal; you were not present when he held a coal-heated blade to my neck."

A note of sorrow pinched her. She remembered Robin's anger, his conviction that Gisborne represented everything that was evil about the world, and the irony that her mercy towards Gisborne could hurt Robin so much. She almost wished that she hadn't intervened to save Gisborne's life.

"If you are trying to wage a moral battle against Robin Hood, then you should let him go," she said quietly. Gisborne scoffed at this, but Marian pressed the issue. "He released you!"

"For a hostage exchange, for a Saracen slave girl."

"He was willing to trade his enemy for his friend. Don't you understand? You can't win against him if you kill him outright. Prove you are the better man," she challenged. "Rescue him. Make him indebted to you."

"I do not want his debts!" Gisborne shouted, and she wanted to shove him. "I do not have to prove that I am the better man; it is apparent." The lock finally gave entrance, and Gisborne kicked the door open. It ricocheted against the wall. He pushed Marian inside the room ahead of him.

She whirled to face him. "Nothing will change your mind and let you forget this hate, will it? You would have let Nottingham burn so that you did not have to cooperate with this man. I cannot understand your anger."

"He would have left you to die, Marian. How could I have forgiven that? Even if you can, it would have destroyed me."

"But if you did not accept him and Nottingham burned, I still would have been lost. Your anger towards him is more important to you than I am," she challenged.

Gisborne's shale eyes drew a shadow. "I would have hoped you had thought better of me by now than that."

She fumed, thinking that she could never marry this man if he insisted on turning every conversation into a discussion about his feelings for her. At the moment, she had more important issues weighing on her mind, starting with the fates of five men. Swallowing her anger, she took a step towards him and asked, "Then why is it so difficult to be merciful?"

"You want me to save Hood?" he accused, crossing his arms and creating a barrier between them.

"Surely that is not a sin," she countered, touching her fingertips to his arm. His watched the movement, and then lifted his eyes to hers. She held firm.

He cursed and looked away. "To oppose my superior, the man that God and the Prince have put before me, and to allow a band of criminals to flourish - that is not sin?"

"To save your fellow man from death shows compassion greater than any sin you think yourself guilty of committing." When he failed to answer she persisted, "Think, Guy. God gave you strength and compassion to protect men, not to harm them."

"I already told you – if I am to protect anyone, it must be by making sacrifices. I can't let every brigand, thief, or murderer roam free."

"Then don't allow him to roam free. Put these men in the dungeon, banish them to Ireland, but do not stain yourself with more death - that is all I am asking you." She tugged at the leather around his elbow, and it was only a little time that he resisted before allowing her to pull him towards her. "I know you are capable. You have used your strength before to protect me, and you were wonderful." She lifted her other hand to brush some stray hairs out of his eyes; his features softened but he did not move. "Guy, you must know that I was once proud to stay by your side."

"I wish you could be proud to stay with me without these conditions," he said softly, uncrossing his arms. "Minutes ago you were ready to fight me based on a rumour. What guarantee now do I have that I should trust you?" She opened her mouth to answer him, but he brought a finger to her lips. "Marry me."

She controlled herself and managed not to gasp. Her face must have briefly registered her shock, for Gisborne's countenance fell. She didn't know what to do. The possibility of marriage had been creeping around her thoughts, just as it always did when he was near, but, still, she had hoped he wouldn't ask.

She opened her mouth beneath his finger to respond, but he cut her off.

"I won't wait until the king arrives, either. I will marry you today, before I leave for Portsmouth."

Her previous words died in her throat; his request was no easier than it had been a year ago – worse now, because she was already engaged. "But, Guy, that's in less than a few hours."

He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "If you do not want me, say it. Do not make up excuses. If you want me to spare my worst enemy, you will have to make it worth my while."

She wanted to refuse Gisborne and deny that she could be so easily won, but thoughts of Robin, dead and mangled, consumed her. She envisioned Robin's soft jaw purple and swollen, his lovely brow beaten past recognition, and the fine hands he used for shooting bow cut into red ribbons. Hero of the crusades, tricked and murdered in his own shire.

All her reservations to the exchange at hand were mere vanities. She would do anything to save him. She would prostitute herself to the sheriff if it would save Robin's life; Gisborne, in comparison, was a bargain.

"Yes" she said, hardly thinking. Gisborne looked almost as surprised as she felt. "If you save the outlaw Robin Hood and his men," she continued cautiously, iterating the terms, "and swear to me that you will prevent harm coming to them in the future – especially from the sheriff – then I will willingly become your wife."

Ages went by as she waited for him to answer. His eyes searched hers for something, and perhaps finding it, he turned away to leave. As his hand reached the door, she called after him not to leave her without a confirmation, and he stopped.

"I will be back within a few hours," he said. "I will not leave Nottingham without seeing you, be sure of that." His tone was dead, and she wondered if she had lost. "If you leave this room," he continued, "if I come back to find that you have betrayed me, I will consider any deal to have been forfeit and the next time I see Hood, I will kill him with my own hands."

She swallowed hard and told him that she would wait.

"I have to find Allan and return him his sword. Where is he?"

Allan? He seemed ages away. She had to think for a moment, but as soon as she told him where to go, Gisborne left, shutting the door without even sparing her a smile to trust. The bolt of the lock ground shut with a sound not unlike the iron doors of the dungeon, trapping her inside her own room. Frustrated and useless, Marian sagged against the wall and told herself that Robin would live through the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: **Profuse thanks again to my beta, **bookishy**, whose saint-like wisdom and patience is worthy of no-less than a Nobel prize. I've edited this story since her last review, so any and all problems are my fault.

* * *

**October 1193**

The candle's light danced along the stone walls as though in celebration, bathing the room in a weak glow. Marian cupped her hands around the flame, borrowing its warmth. Wax pooled thickly around the wick, threatening to engulf it. Only the eleventh and twelfth marks still remained on the stem. She would soon be out her reading light.

Guy had locked her in this room ten hours ago, and she hadn't seen a soul since. When hunger pangs had struck, she wondered if this was punishment or if he had just forgotten her. Even if she could leave the room, she would not. Guy had promised her that he would save her friends from death and other harm, under condition that she wait for him to return. Once he was back, she would marry him. Now that she had time to consider the arrangement, she decided that it was deeply flawed. She couldn't get out, so her promise to wait was pointless. Guy could easily have changed his mind about following through, or he could have been lying when he agreed and thus left her here to rot.

She tried distracting herself**,** but her fears continued to coalesce. Each time she glanced at the candle, with its numbered marks disappearing as the day gave into night, she thought of Robin, and she worried. It should not take so long to save a man's life; Guy should have returned by now.

An icy wind escaped from beneath the window curtain, and snapped at her limbs. She drew her cloak around her. Winter was closing fast this year. She thought of the chilly nights spent in the forest, and the cloak she was secretly embroidering for Robin as a birthday present. She'd throw it to the dogs before she saw it on Guy, if Robin was dead. Surely God would not force her to weather Robin's death this year too. _At least until Spring,_ she prayed silently_. Let me have that long_. She picked up the small figure she kept on her desk of her father's patron saint, St. Edward, but her fingers shrank from its painted smile.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, scattering her thoughts. It must be Guy – he had finally returned for her. When she heard pounding on the door, she felt certain. Her heart rose to her throat as she frantically checked her hair in a small hand-mirror, racing to finish before he finished wrestling with the lock. If Guy had failed to save Robin, or if something else had gone wrong, he might blame her. Could she manage him? The man had such a terrible, stupid temper, and she didn't have another house for him to burn. After a moment's hesitation, she twisted her hair upwards, securing the knot with her dagger-pin. He could kill her now, she realized, and a cold shiver scratched down her spine. There was no one around who would defend her, and Vasey would probably reward Guy for her blood.

When the door burst open behind her, she was half-surprised not to die on the spot. Tentatively, she peeked over her shoulder to see Guy of Gisborne, his long figure looming in the doorway. He stared at her like a wolf that had cornered a rabbit. A fresh cut stretched over his forehead from his left eye to his hairline. She could only guess who'd grazed him.

Swallowing her fear, she rose to her feet, facing him at her full height. What he did next, she did not expect.

In two long strides he covered the space between them, enfolded her in his arms and hugged her close. His face burrowed into the space between her neck and her shoulder; the warm breath from his nose tickled her skin. Her surprise gave way quickly. Soon she found herself relaxing in his grip and wrapping her arms around his back. With his warm body against her, all of her buried emotions started to resurface – her worry over Robin and her friends, her hatred of the sheriff, of Allan's betrayal, her fear for the king, even her grief for her father. Overwhelmed, she crushed herself into Guy's yielding shoulder, squeezing her eyes against tears for as long as she could. Eventually, she gave way to deep sobs. Guy held her and rocked her softly.

She had no idea how long they stayed melded that way. If he could stay this way forever, she thought, she would not mind marrying him. The man holding her now was entirely different from the man who had threatened her earlier. Eventually, her face itched from tears, and she drew a few inches away. She felt Guy's lips on her forehead and her stomach clenched.

"You're cold," he said finally, and she would have smiled at his simplicity except that her chill was partially his fault. Of course she was cold – her firewood had run out hours ago, and her room was sealed. He withdrew his long coat and pulled it around her shoulders. She looked up at him and again saw the cut on his brow. Feeling adventurous, she ghosted her fingertips over the scratch, testing to see how tender the skin was. He pushed her hand away.

"Tell me what has happened today," she ordered.

"Everything has happened," he murmured teasingly and led her backwards into the candlelight, where his gaze swept over her, slowly. She could see the tiny veins in his eyes, whispering around the edges like threads of smoke. The corners of his mouth held the hint of a smile. "I kept my promise," he informed her, and her heart thudded.

"But how…"

Guy put a gloved finger to her lips and spoke in a hushed tone, as though they might be heard. "The Sheriff and I made a deal. It's complicated, but for now, Hood is alive."

Her knees shook as she went dizzy with relief, and she willed herself to stand upright. Robin, John, Much, Will, Djaq – no, they were not dead yet. A small voice at the back of her mind shrieked, asking for proof, but after the angst of waiting, Guy's answer was enough. Joy had been absent from her life for so long that she welcomed even its phantom. For a moment, she could barely hear anything beyond the rush of blood in her ears, barely think past her joy that Robin was alive, would live, and so she did not resist when Guy, mumbling something about Portsmouth, put his lips to hers.

She could almost pretend that she was kissing Robin. The stubble on his jaw was almost the same, the heights weren't so different, and they both smelled sweet, like horses. She wondered briefly how long she could stay comfortable, lying to herself like this.

As soon as she felt Guy's hand on her breast, the spell broke.

With a sudden chill, she realized that he could have her now, in this room, and no man would challenge his right. The thought put iron in her heart. Seemingly oblivious, Guy removed her dagger hairpin and dropped it to the floor. He wound her loose hair tight around one hand and pressed the fingers of his other hand into ridges of her spine. She pressed the heel of her hand into his chest to push him off of her. Their mouths separated with a soft pop. He groaned and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, swooping in for a deeper kiss. With effort, she finally managed to disentangle herself from his embrace, but stopped herself from running out the door screaming. She was desperate for freedom, but she was also conscious of her limits.

"Marian," he pleaded in a voice full of danger and honey, and brushed her hair behind her ear. "Look at me." His calloused fingers were rough against her hot skin.

Marriage would be the end of their friendship. Their dangerous flirtation had gone on for so long that she didn't even believe it would end, but end it would – and tonight - but it would be his victory, not hers. She lifted her face towards him, pulled her lips into a quick smile and walked a few steps away, wringing her hands over her wrists.

He coughed. "I am sorry if I am not pleasing to you, Marian," he said carefully.

"You are pleasing," she whispered, and hated the taste of the lie. Sorrow was settling in on her like a new-fallen snow, blanketing the effervescent joy of moments past. She would belong to him, no longer be a Fitzwalter, and never Robin's countess. She would be the pet and possession of a man who was willing to kill his own son for the crime of being born to the wrong mother. Marian moved towards a window but Guy gripped her bicep, holding her still.

"I find that impossible to believe," he said, fully returned to his usual arrogance. "Especially when you won't look at me."

"I'm just a little overwhelmed, that's all, and I needed some room to think," She said quickly, trying to divert his anger. "It's been such a long day."

"There's still some day left, my lady."

"Yes," she said, her eyes following the pattern of stones in the ceiling. "So, did you have any trouble?"

Guy's bewilderment shone on his face. "Sorry?"

"I mean, was anyone hurt today? Anyone besides Allan, that is?" She added a small laugh for effect.

Guy's eyes narrowed. "Allan got along fine, no thanks to you, but you don't need to worry about the rest."

"Then what about this?" She lifted her hand to where his brow was grazed. "I doubt you did that to yourself."

"You don't have to worry, now." He drew her wrist down, speaking firmly, as if scolding a child, but his eyes were soft. "I will protect you."

Marian clenched her teeth and gave a false smile. He at least pretended to be convinced.

"Now, what were you going to show me as proof that you kept your promise?" she demanded, trying to conceal her interest.

"About the outlaws?"

"Yes, of course. You said that you found a way to spare them, but you didn't tell me how, or give me any proof."

"Then you're saying my word isn't good enough for you."

"You locked me in a tower," she snapped. "You have everything to gain by killing Hood and his men and then lying to me about it. You could leave me here to rot forever."

"I have half a mind to do just that." He said, crossing his arms and perching to one side, and then he sniffed, as he did whenever he was annoyed. The action was as ridiculous as it was loud and ugly. There were times when she thought she could marry him, when he was just handsome enough and just rarely brave enough that she could look past all his other…faults. And then there were times like these.

"Then leave me here. If Hood lives, as you say he does, he'll save me. If he's dead, I'll die. You won't have to deal with me. Otherwise, you must show me some proof." It was a risk, but with him, everything was a risk.

"You think he would save you?" Guy scoffed, more bewildered than angered by her suggestion.

"Out of spite," she retorted, hoping he would take the bait. She watched the internal conflict unfold on his face and waited. His jaw worked for a moment, and his arms uncurled.

"You're asking me for proof that the outlaws survived?"

"I think it's only fair, considering what I've promised you."

"You've promised me nothing but a cold marriage. You have no family, no connections - you don't even have a dowry."

She bowed her head, stung by his words. Her reply held no mirth in it. "It is not my fault that my father is dead and that our wealth was taken."

Though he immediately apologized, she did not mutter any acceptance. Guy, she thought to herself, was like a dog that didn't understand when he had done wrong, only that his master was angry. It was in his nature to terrorize smaller, weaker creatures.

"But what about me?" he asked next, with an old darkness in his voice. She knew what he meant, and despite her anger, her body warmed in response.

"I do not want to hate you," she said carefully, paradoxically. "I want us to be friends."

He stepped in close; she could sense his heat through his leather, though he was still inches away from her. "Anything else?"

She steeled herself. "I want to love the man that I marry," she said finally. "And I want to know that I can trust him." She hated him right now. She waited in silence for him to consider this, letting the seconds stretch into a chasm.

"So you want proof."

"Yes."

"What constitutes proof?"

"A trinket, a trifle, something that belongs to one of the outlaws. Something that I would recognize."

"How would you recognize something from someone you don't associate with?"

She swallowed, afraid to be caught. "I grew up with Hood; I'm sure there's something."

He took his time considering her answer, then slapped his thighs and stepped away. "I will be back in one hour," he announced finally, and pivoted to leave.

"What then?" she called after him.

"I'll send you something to eat," he said, pausing at the door. "I have some arrangements to make." She could hear the indecision in his voice.

She breathed without knowing if there was cause for her relief. "You mean that…"

"I will marry you tonight," he promised. "And if you do not believe the proof I give you, you can sleep in the dungeon for all I care."

The door slammed when he closed it. She jumped at the noise, and then cursed herself for being so skittish.

* * *

Guy rested his arms on the bars of the cell door, looking down at the prisoner contained within. Robin of Loxley, Earl of Huntingdon, the man who had taught him everything he knew about hate, stared right back.

"I don't know what you're planning, Gisborne, but it won't work. Vasey will see through you, he'll kill you when he finds out what you've done."

"Stop talking like it makes a difference, Hood," Guy retorted, trying to appear calm. He could not believe that he had gone along with Marian's desperate plan. He had caught her breaking the law, breaking her promise to him, and was rightfully in power, yet he had let her manipulate him again and again, until he was at this ridiculous point. As much as he hated to admit it, Hood was right. Vasey would kill Gisborne if he knew about the man's complicity in saving Hood's life. Vasey was already furious that Hood had survived, and sent Gisborne back to Nottingham castle with an ultimatum: Hood had to be dead by the time that Vasey returned from Acre, or Gisborne would be executed.

Killing Hood would have been easy enough, except, of course, that Marian would hate him. He still couldn't figure out why it mattered so much to her. Her whinging earlier this evening about proof and trust had become almost unbearable. He had to remove himself from her presence so that he wouldn't hurt her.

He didn't hurt her, because he wanted his wedding night – he had earned that much, and he would have it before he died. He didn't know why exactly he didn't just take it from her right then. He didn't even need to bolt the door - no one would have heard, apart from the two of them and God, that is. He had some standards, at least. In truth, no matter how awful she treated him, he couldn't pull away. The more embroiled he became in her lies and mysteries, the more enamored he became, and the less he felt like he could pull away. He felt like she was a spider, and he was a fly in her web.

He wanted her to trust him. He wanted her to give herself to him, to have that level of control over her.

"Give me something of yours," Gisborne demanded of the prisoner below him.

"What?" Hood looked up from shivering on the floor. He wore a puzzled expression on his face.

"I need something that belongs to you. Something you can't be without."

"You have everything that belongs to me. My house, my servants,"

"And I have Marian, I know. Now, if you want any of your servants to eat tonight, you'll give me something new. Something that you've had for a long time, that one of your parents gave you."

"You're a sick man, Gisborne, did your mother ever tell you that?"

"No, she died while I was still young."

"Oh, isn't that sad. She didn't see her boy grow up into an overdressed bully."

Guy stepped back and nodded to a man standing in the corner. "You're getting tired, Hood, can't even come up with a proper insult anymore."

The man opened the cell door, and Guy strode inside. Hood smiled, the smug bastard. Guy remembered Marian's request that none of the outlaws be harmed, but then he remembered that Marian hadn't included requests for proof in the original terms of their agreement, and that she had been very vague on what constituted harm.

* * *

When Guy finally returned, she made no effort to greet him. A servant had brought her a meal and a new candle, and changed her pot. Marian had spent the rest of her time at her desk, using her small ivory-handled mirror to erase the signs of unease from her face.

His spurs clanked against the stone as he moved to stand beside her. She continued to fix herself before her hand-mirror. The desk barely made a noise as he leaned against it, watching in silence as she finished dabbing kohl around her eyes. Snuck glances at his profile, wondering what he was thinking, until finally, she tilted her mirror to catch his reflection in the polished bronze. There was fascination written into his face - his parted lips seemed to hold words back, and his eyes had become pools of black, as though he were stunned. Hurriedly, she returned to her work.

"You don't need that color," he admonished, and she bit her tongue to keep from saying anything.

"Did you bring me something?" she asked.

He nodded, and she held her breath. He took out a soft leather pouch and loosened the strings, then gestured for her to look inside. She hesitated, dipped her hand into the purse and pulled out a small object. It was her engagement ring; she knew it by touch.

She rolled the ring in her fingers, using the diamonds to catch the light, and struggled not to show any emotion. Did he know what this was - was he testing her?

"I was hoping that you would recognize this. I was told that it belonged to his mother."

"Yes, I remember her wearing it when I was a girl," she said quickly, thankful for the opening. "It definitely belongs to Hood - he would not like to be without it. How did you get it?"

Guy coughed. "The same way that you called Hood to the castle – I have my channels of contact."

She accepted his answer, knowing that any further provocation might damn her. It wasn't that she didn't believe Guy in the first place about Robin, but she'd used up her last trick and she couldn't delay the wedding any longer.

"I was just curious, thank you." She returned the ring to the pouch without another word, and turned back to the mirror, as if nothing had happened.

He bent over and traced a finger down one of her cheeks, sending goose bumps under her dress. Her cheeks burned under his gaze.

"You've been crying again," he said softly, and she brushed his hand away.

"It's just my father," she said reflexively.

"Your father?" Guy's voice registered his concern.

"I'm sorry that he can't give me away," she answered quickly, hoping to end the inquiry.

"I'm sorry for that as well. I'm sure Sir Edward would have liked to see us wed."

Her ears and the back of her neck flashed with heat. Her father would have wept to see this turn of events, she thought, but kept silent. Let him think what he would.

"We're both alone, then," Guy said, and she felt more alone than ever.

He waited for her to finish then offered his hand to help her up. She tied a small purse around her wrist before rising to meet him. He clasped her hand in his, and a dull ache welled in her chest.

"Are you sure you're ready?" he asked, and she could see fear haunting his eyes. She tried to smile but failing that, answered by nodding—once, twice—then gave his hand a firm squeeze.

His Adam's apple dipped as he swallowed and ran his tongue over his lips. She watched anxiously, wondering what he was thinking. He leaned closer; she could feel his eyes running patterns over her mouth. The air trembled as she waited for him to kiss her again, but the touch never came. Wordlessly, he withdrew, and she let out the long breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

He turned on his heel and before she knew it, he was leading her out of the room and down the dark stairs. As they climbed down, she glanced out the archers' windows, looking for light. Through thin slits in the stone walls she could see the snow-white moon hanging full in the pitch-black sky.

* * *

**March, 1194**

The young Earl of Huntingdon had not yet touched his lips to the cup; he looked down the goblet as if though it were full of spiders instead of spiced wine. When Robin took a while to answer, Richard continued.

"Of course, you don't like him. He has your lands and your betrothed—I understand—but I already told you not to worry about that. I didn't ask if you like him, I asked if he can be manipulated to my advantage and if I should be merciful or make an example. It's a business question, not a personal one."

Richard paced before a tall column, favoring his left side. He was still a little sore from the battle, and the years of handling heavy broadswords were slowly catching up with him.

It was dark where they were; the windows had been boarded shut. About a dozen or so men of the king's private council occupied the room, airing their thoughts about how to deal with the prisoners captured after the siege. The queen sat on bench by the Bishop of Durham, who smiled at her as he poured her wine. This was the room that Vasey used to host the Black Knights, where once upon a time Robin had dangled from a rope and been tortured for entertainment.

Robin didn't bother making a face. "You think Gisborne's worth saving?"

"Well, the resistance he organized to my siege was certainly well organized. He lasted a full month against you and Chester before I arrived."

"It fell, didn't it?"

"Yes, of course it fell," Richard snapped. "But I'm looking at potential."

"What potential? He's a tyrant! The people of Nottingham loathe him – you just heard the testimony of the local nobles out in the great hall! He killed anyone who refused to follow his orders!"

"But the ones who lived followed his orders without question," Richard answered coolly. "This Black Knight ran Nottingham as a disciplined camp and—with mere peasants—he successfully held off my veteran forces for several days. I need good soldiers to reclaim my land from Philip. This man has slighted you, and as my vassal and as my friend, he has slighted me. But if any use can be squeezed out of this man I need it. So tell me, can I trust him?"

Robin whirled his cup by its stem. "My lord, you remember why I had to leave you in Acre."

"You took a dagger defending me against a Saracen attack." Richard hugged Robin's neck with the crook of his arm and nuzzled his face in the young archer's hair. "I will never forget your loyalty to me then." The king's voice was so soft that the other men could not hear him. Robin closed his eyes.

"They weren't Saracens," Robin finally said.

Richard's head jerked up. "What?"

"The men who attempted to kill you in Acre that time, when I was head of your guard, were not Saracens." Robin spoke louder this time so the others could hear.

There was a quiet uproar as some men scoffed and others tried to silence them. The queen rose from her seat and moved to her son's side.

"But their dress—their weapons!" Richard protested, his voice betraying some of the fatigue from the past few months.

"Yes," Robin conceded, "but they were only disguises. They were your subjects."

The jovial light in the king's eyes vanished, and Richard's face was replaced by a hard mask.

Durham, who had fought long and hard against John's men at Tickhill before joining Richard at Nottingham, crowed the loudest dissent. "This Gisborne is just another Gerard of Camville**.** I don't know why you don't just make an example of him!"

Other men in the room jumped up and gave their own piece, arguing with each other over Camville's disloyalty, until Richard had to shout at them to quiet down. Robin chuckled at the squabbling, then stopped and cleared his throat when Richard nodded at him to continue.

"The men who attacked our camp that day were Christians, Englishmen. They were usurpers of the crown, and they wanted us to think they were from Salah al-Din to upset the peace negotiations. Guy was one of them."

"And how do you know?" Richard's voice rumbled.

"I saw a tattoo of a wolf on his arm; it's marked by my own blade. He even admitted the truth to me. My man, Much, can attest."

"Is that all? You, and your man?" The queen asked sharply.

"There was once another man in town who could bear witness, but Gisborne murdered him." Robin said soberly, then added, quietly, "And the former sheriff, Vasey, of course."

"You think this man was sent by one of my other sons," the queen reflected; it was a statement, not a question.

Robin nodded and shifted his weight languorously. "So when you ask whether you should trust him, I say no."

Silence took over the room for a moment while Richard fumed. When Richard prompted Robin again, there was new warmth in his voice. "You haven't answered my second question, Huntingdon."

"My lord?"

"About mercy. I asked whether you would grant this man any mercy. Any at all, for any reason."

All eyes in the room fell onto the lithe archer with fair, Saxon hair. Robin thought for a moment, and then he gave his answer.

"Mercy, my lord, but not too much."

* * *

_To be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** This chapter is rated a strong NC-17 for adult situations. Readers are advised to note the change in rating.

* * *

**October, 1193**

The priest had to be dragged out of his covers to perform the ceremony, because Guy refused to wait until morning. He gave the blessing of the bride in his nightclothes. Marian almost felt like a criminal, the way they were eloping.

The ceremony, quiet, small and held in the castle chapel, had as much joy as a funeral. She noted the line of sleep-deprived guards and servants at the back of the room, apparently roused for the sole purpose of being witnesses. Guy was nothing if not thorough; this marriage would stand up in court if anyone tried to challenge its legitimacy.

She answered the perfunctory question of consent with a heavy tongue.

When Guy slipped the cold gold band over her finger, she suppressed a laugh, amused that this trifling piece of jewelry could have so much significance. It was a different ring than before; she guessed that he had discarded the other as bad luck. She glanced at his face and saw deep ridges creasing his brow; the sight subsumed her mirth. This event meant something to him; to him, this was not merely a business transaction.

The altar cloth passed over their heads, masking them from the light. Guy flicked his eyes towards her, and she glanced away, embarrassed. The priest commended the couple for being so bashful and then stifled a yawn.

The ceremony finished, and some of the guards gave half-hearted cheers. She brushed it off; Guy, however, paled. Taking pity on him, she hooked her arm in his and nudged him to finish walking down the aisle. The crowd dispersed as soon as the couple left the chapel behind, and she was grateful for that at least—nothing could have made the next step more difficult than an audience.

Saying prayers with Guy was one thing. Sleeping in his bed was another.

She was curious about the act; she was confident enough to admit that. And Guy was handsome enough, and he loved her. Lots of girls married ugly men, she reminded herself. Lots of girls married men who hated them. She was lucky, she reasoned, falling back on the arguments her father used to make. There was nothing to fear, nothing to mourn. Just because her parents had a loving marriage, just because she had found love on her own, did not mean that she should have expected to choose her husband. She was always going to marry Guy—the difference was that he knew and embraced it while she had run away. Fortune had finally caught up with her.

And yet, she thought, recalling her father's last words to her, it was still good to dream.

They reached the room much too soon. A few dogs piled around the hearth, sleeping fitfully. Guy kicked them awake and shooed them outside, scolding them as they whined. The door closed, leaving her completely alone with him. The only sound came from the blaze of the fire, the slippery crackle of logs. She took in the mess of papers and pouches scattered over the floor and desk, and the half-opened trunk at the foot of the bed. The room looked like it belonged to a little boy, not a man some years past thirty.

"I didn't have time to fully prepare," he muttered from behind her, as if following her thoughts. She bit her lip and nodded.

She stood uncertain at the center of the room as he circled, waiting to pounce. Marian caught his eyes and saw his hunger burning through them, like torch lights. Guy wouldn't be satisfied with a cool wife, a woman who lay down and took his love as if it were a beating. Turning her face away, she stepped up to the bed, untying her cloak as she went.

Unbidden, his hands appeared at her shoulders, taking the garment with practiced courtesy. He paused briefly as their fingers touched. The hairs on her arm stood on end. As he departed to find a hook, she counselled herself. She thought of Robin, his kind eyes, and the gentleness that came without force. She couldn't think of this _treaty _with Guy as a betrayal of her love, even if it mandated the end.

Guy's footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned to meet him. He stood inches away, hovering, and regarding her from beneath his thick lashes. She hated when he played timid like this. Summoning her courage, she closed the space between them and reached up to his jacket, squeezing the uppermost clasp between her thumb and forefinger. She didn't have to love him – just convince him.

His pupils grew wide, like lakes, at her touch. He dropped his gloves to the floor and clasped her forearm, but he did not stop her. His fingers slid over the long bones running from her knuckles down to the joints of her wrists, tracing her movements as she worked. She ventured to lift an eyebrow, and he gave a long blink in return. His touch was languid, almost melancholy. As she made progress down his jacket, he slid his hand into the wide mouth of her sleeve, running his fingers up her arm. She felt her blood quicken. At last, she came to the final clasp, just a hair's breadth under his belt. Her fingers slipped; her hands had gone clammy.

Guy cupped her jaw and tilted her face up for a kiss. It was a soft greeting, so devoid of the anger and bickering that had preceded it. She kissed him back leisurely, tasting the sour traces of spiced wine on his tongue. The silver wolf dug sharply into her skin before finally releasing. As the clasp popped open, she tried not to imagine it as a little lock, bolting shut.

Guy brought his other hand around her waist, clutching her to him. She looped her free hand around his neck for balance. The hand at her waist shifted downwards to cup something else, and she swatted him away. He smiled into the kiss, irritating her, then twisted his hand in hers, and held it in place at the small of her back. She could feel him pressing into her belly, and thought about what that meant. The base of her spine tingled.

Without warning, he hooked his ankle behind her leg and jerked, knocking her off balance and sending them both tumbling down onto the mattress. She wriggled out from beneath him, and he followed, dog-like, halting every few inches to plant kisses on her. His boots hit the floor with soft thuds. As they twisted together, angling for a comfortable position, he arched his back, knocking his hips against hers as he did so, sending a rough thrill through her. Unthinking, she lifted her body to rub back against him, trying to hit more of that delicious heat. He bent down to graze her neck with his lips, moving over her pulse points with hot kisses, suckling and biting in places. She grasped his jacket in both hands and peeled it off his shoulders, gasping slightly as he wove a trail between her jaw and shoulders. As she wrestled with the sleeves, her fingers danced over the muscles of his arms. He sat up to help her, shrugging the garment off the rest of the way, exposing the soft wool shirt underneath. She hesitated only a moment before reaching for the edge and pulling. They worked in tandem, him jerking out the laces on her gown, while she tugged his shirt off of him and threw it to the side.

His skin shone amber in the firelight, just as she remembered. Guy might be a horrible person, but in his own way, he was beautiful. And, she reasoned, they were married now. She let her hand roam delicately over his chest while he watched, seeking out the muscles under the smooth exterior of skin. He was so unlike Robin. She thought of the tawny hair trailing down Robin's lean chest, and the sun-kissed scars striping his limber arms; she remembered how he bristled with a fine sheen of sweat after a long run. Guy stuck to her like wet leather; whenever he shifted, she could feel the sting of skin un-sticking.

Eventually, her hand skirted over the edge of his belt. She watched, fascinated, as his muscles twitched, just from her nearness. Above her, he panted slightly, his arms a wall surrounding her. Inspired, she scratched her nails lightly over the sensitive skin just above his belt buckle. He surged forward and sighed, eyes sealed as though in pain. So she raked her nails over the same area, digging deeper, but careful not to cut. He hissed, low and powerful; the sound made her blood drum. When he looked at her again, she saw that some of the previous tenderness had disappeared. He knocked her hands aside and started yanking out the laces on his braies. She scooted backwards, her mouth running dry. Dread rippled through her, warring with her arousal. Hastily, she reached for the hem of her shift, her only remaining garment, and started to pull it over her head. She had to show that he couldn't take control, that she wouldn't be afraid, not even if he got angry.

As her hand neared her waist, he grabbed her wrist, stopping her. She met him with a hard gaze; she hated having to give the lead to him, her enemy - her husband.

But Guy's eyes were soft when they met hers. "I don't want any bad memories coming between us tonight," he said, and let his hand drift over her side to where her scar lay hidden by the linen shift.

She swallowed and hid her eyes, ashamed. She nodded, letting the edge of her shift drift back down into place. A team of priests couldn't exorcise the demons haunting their marriage bed, she thought bitterly, but held her tongue, secretly relieved by the gesture.

Evidently encouraged, he put his hand to her jaw, caressing her face. She parted her mouth softly, letting him graze her bottom lip with his thumb before replacing his hand with his lips. He brushed her hair back, and cradled her neck as they kissed. He knelt between her legs, balancing with his remaining hand on her open thigh.

She flinched at the initial contact, the sensitive flesh reacting as though hit by a hundred tiny arrows. She closed her eyes and relaxed, wrapping her arms and legs around him, and tried to enjoy the kiss. She tried not to think of anything substantial. It would be better if her mind were blank, if her thoughts were open and free, unclouded by politics, circumstances, or love. His stubble prickled her jaw, and she threaded her fingers through his hair experimentally, stopping once her thoughts flooded with memories of Robin's feather-soft hair, always thick with leaves and pieces of forest. No bad memories, she told herself. Nothing inconvenient either. Just her, Guy, and the bed.

Guy slipped his hand deeper under her shift. Her breathing became shorter and more deliberate as she became uncertain of his direction. He dropped his second hand from her shoulder to her breasts, kneading each in turn in what was either an attempt to distract her from what his other hand was doing, or a pantomime of bread-making. Maybe both. She couldn't really understand the male fascination with breasts, and was less than impressed by the handling. But just as she reached up to swat away his hands, a new sensation, infinitely more powerful, interrupted her thoughts. Sparks sliced through her body like razor blades as Guy stroked her sex.

She had to break the kiss so that she didn't bite his tongue out by accident. No one had ever touched her there, not Robin, not even herself. The sensation was overwhelming – she didn't know if she liked it or not. Her head bowed forward, and she let her hair fall loose around her face.

Still stroking, Guy leaned over and whispered gently, "Just trust me."

She wanted to trust him. Everything would be so much easier if she could trust him. Though her knees shook, she nodded.

He slipped a finger in between the folds of her sex, inside of her. The alien sensation gave her a little panic. Oh, she wished she hadn't nodded. She gripped his shoulder, trying to calm herself. He stroked her from the inside and the outside simultaneously; her body twitched and sang in new ways she wasn't quite comfortable with yet. Just as she thought she was used to what was going on, he slipped in another finger, and twisted the two around, abandoning her outer sex. She gasped, and bucked slightly against his hand, missing the outer touch. To her annoyance, he chuckled. Guy of Gisborne should never chuckle, she thought grimly.

Soon enough, he withdrew his hand entirely. She sighed, thinking briefly that they were finished, and then she saw him sit back to start stroking himself. No, he wasn't just stroking himself, he was coating himself, and she realized, belatedly, that he'd been preparing her.

She gazed upon his nakedness for the first time with a sort of dread fascination. She wasn't blind to the world. She knew what men looked like without clothes; it was just different to look upon a man when he was preparing to make love to you, and when you'd only married him to save your real lover.

Guy pushed her back down into the sheets. His tongue flicked out over his lips, almost imperceptibly. She caught his gaze and held it, strengthening her resolve. She was here by her own doing, she reminded herself.

"Are you ready?" he asked, and she tried not to laugh.

She opened her mouth to reply, but the words wouldn't leave her throat. Instead, she answered him by crossing his lips with her own. At once, his arms surged around her. He kissed her back in pieces, on her lips, on her nose, on her brow, as though he could consume her by touching. Her stomach muscles fluttered.

He pulled away and stretched out so that their hips met. His hand threaded between their legs; she looked down and watched as he grasped himself, and guided himself to her entrance. She looked away, feeling him press against her for one aching moment before pushing on inside her. She released a breath. He pulled out partway, and then pushed back in, deeper, and at an angle that made her cry out. Startled, he withdrew from her entirely.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked quickly. She grimaced a little, and he started muttering apologies, so quick and so numerous that his words fell on top of themselves. It was painful, true, but by the way he went on, one would have thought he was doing something serious. She wondered if he'd even really seen that scar on her belly; if Guy thought that sex hurt, he should try being punched in the stomach with a dagger.

"It's fine, I promise. Try again," she said finally, trying to hush him. He nodded, but his eyes were still apprehensive.

"It will be better, I promise," he grunted, as soon he had reentered her. It wasn't pleasurable, but it was less painful. As he started to glide back and forth within her, she felt his hand pressing roughly between her legs, where she had begun to ache again. She was still sensitive there, but his touches were all wrong this time, like he wasn't concentrating. Pleasure withered around the edges of each stroke like a broken promise. Eventually, she sat up to push his hands aside but he pinned her back down with the heel of his hand.

"Almost there," he rumbled in that deep, conspiratorial voice he used when they whispered together in public.

The gash on his forehead had reopened; the blood threatened to drip into his eye. She reached up and brushed it away, smearing the red over his face. He caught her hand and licked her palm, then sped up, cantering. She grazed her hand over his stomach, feeling his abdomen tighten under her touch. Beneath him, she twisted, trying to angle her hips to meet his movements. Soon, his face contorted and flushed as though he were in pain; he threw back his head and gave a deep, throaty groan. As her husband slowed to a still, knowledge filled her – she didn't have to be told. She closed her eyes, trying to blot out the reality of what had just happened.

"Marian," he broached hesitantly. She felt his thumb on her brow. His laborious breath filled her ears as he brushed the hair away from her eyes. "Look at me."

Obediently, she flicked her eyes open. Black had eclipsed the blue in his eyes, like twin new moons. The passion in his expression unnerved her.

"I have never loved anyone as much as you," he said, his voice almost cracking, and Marian wished she could un-hear the words. She searched for something inspiring to respond with, at last whispering, hoarsely, "I know." Immediately, she regretted opening her mouth.

He turned his face out of the fire's glow and into shadow. She raised her hand to touch him—the need to soothe was instinctual—but she faltered. He must not have noticed; it must not have mattered. He pulled out of her and dropped onto the mattress, showing her his back. She swallowed, grateful.

She rolled onto her side, tucked her knees into her chest, and stared into the fire. After awhile, the mattress creaked and bent beneath her. Guy had sat up to reach the pile of sheets, blankets and furs piled at the foot of the bed. He tossed some at her, and she caught them, blinking. He crawled up behind her, wrapped his arms and legs around her. Soon she heard his breathing slow and change pattern. He must have fallen asleep. She turned her attention back to the fire, gazing at the yellow and white light without blinking, not caring how it burned.

* * *

**March, 1194**

"Robin is angry at me," she said finally.

"What? No, no."

"That's why he won't come to see me."

"He's just confused, that's all."

"He thinks that because I was Guy's wife, I could have ended the siege."

Much paused, half-true words of comfort falling flat on his tongue. He mumbled, trying not to wound her. "I'd be lying if I said we hadn't hoped."

"Hadn't we all?" She shrugged and laid her head back against the stone, her wary voice growing distant. "I almost think that Guy fought harder because of me."

Much didn't have anything to say to that. Luckily, the doors finally opened, so he didn't have to. One of Richard's guards stepped out and made a signal for them to follow. Much helped her up – she was weak on her feet nowadays – and escorted her inside.

The great hall was a mess of peasants and nobles, many dressed for battle. She searched the crowd for friendly faces and came up short. A youth in grey silks eyed her suspiciously before turning back to his circle, speaking animatedly. She frowned but stood up straighter; she had expected rejection.

Not long after they'd come to the center of the room, they saw Robin. She had seen glimpses of him in the past few weeks, often on the opposite side of a garrisoned wall. The white and crimson crusader's cape fell from his shoulders; he looked strange. He was Robin the Crusader now, no longer a bandit or a boy, but a soldier - Richard Plantagenet's man. Crouching at his feet was a shape still stranger - and yet more familiar.

Robin held her husband's head up by his hair, forcing him to look at the king, letting his sword span Guy's neck in a way that hinted at decapitation. She frowned; the show of force was unnecessary. Guy already looked like a corpse—his shoulders drooped, his skin was sallow, and his hair was greasy—and the room was filled with Richard's supporters. If her husband attempted to run, he would die before he reached the door.

She clutched the scrolls tightly to her abdomen. In the last days before the siege broke, they had been reduced to strict rations, and as soon as they had surrendered, Guy had been put into leg irons; she wondered when he had eaten last. She shifted her stance, ignoring the burn in her legs that urged her to sprint forward. This was a hearing in a royal court - there was procedure to follow.

Guy's head sagged forward on the blade, and her legs twitched.

* * *

**October, 1193**

As the hours rolled on, Guy's grip loosened. When light first broke, Marian pulled away from his arms. Beneath his tousled hair, Guy's face was smooth and content. Good for him.

She made her way to a window and lifted up the flap to gaze upon the morning light. A fresh blanket of snow covered the ground; winter had come swift and early this year. The morning sun cast an orange and pink glow that burned like flames, chasing the blue shadows back to the trees and towers that made them. The earth sparkled. She perched in the windowsill, letting the cold air snap at her skin, cleansing her, taking her mind away from the soreness between her legs. She should have put on more than a shift, but that would have meant returning to the middle of the room, and she liked the distance between her and the bed.

When finally she heard rustling behind her, she did not turn to look. She had been brave last night; she could be a coward this morning.

"Aren't you cold?" Guy asked; his voice was thick.

She shook her head, no, and gazed upwards to peer at a hawk circling overhead.

As the bed creaked, she pulled her legs up tighter, bracing herself. Guy would never leave her alone now that she was his wife.

A warm fur descended on her shoulders, and then swiftly his lips were at her cheek. She froze as his heavy arms closed around her; if she didn't move, he would go away. She waited, eyes closed, for him to give her back her solitude.

* * *

_To be continued_


End file.
